Death Coach: A Detective Walker Novel

By Morgan Rivers

A psychosexual story that redefines the erotic thriller

What happens when a detective gets unwittingly involved with the serial killer he's hunting? 

That's what Sergeant Walker is about to find

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Rivers
• Release date: Dec 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986670812

Book preview

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Copyright © 2022 by the author

Cover art by Sarah Pritchard

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions of this book in any form whatsoever, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This includes photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval systems.

First edition 202022

Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN 979-8-9866708-0-5 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9866708-1-2 (e-book)

This book is a work of fiction. References to historical events or real people and places are used fictitiously. Other names, events, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Ce livre, comme tout, est pour toi mon chevalier…

Chapter One

There shouldn’t be anything elegant about a dead body. That was the thought running through Walker’s head as he took in the somehow artistic, graceful crime scene before his eyes. The corpse’s limbs had been carefully arranged, arms bowed overhead as if turning a pirouette against the dirt. Her legs were bent in a supine jeté, the rigor mortis immortalizing what must have been impressive flexibility in life. The flies had gotten to her eyes and lips, but if not for that…

It was disturbing of course, but doubly so because this was the third aesthetically arranged murder victim in as many months. Once was an aberration, twice was an upsetting coincidence, but now it was a serial killer, and Walker didn’t need that kind of case. No one did.

Serial killers weren’t career-boosting or interesting. They were bureaucratic nightmares, bringing every specialist, psychologist, ladder-climbing moron, FBI grunt, psychic, and crackpot out of the woodwork to try to help solve the case. And the killers were nuts, of course. The worst kind of murderer, not that there was any best kind—self-important, methodical, and certifiably insane. Walker would take a good old gang killing, murder/suicide, or even a cold case over a serial killer.

But it was his beat. And fortunately or un-, he was good at catching sickos, so this was his problem now.

Forensics came over, cameras flashing, sample bags out, latex gloves snapping. Lynn Holden, the statuesque, severe medical examiner, gave him a nod.

Ready for us to dig into this?

Walker shook his head slightly. Give me another minute, almost done.

They backed away, and he returned to the body, crouching alongside the lean, naked torso. It was bruised, and what looked like rope burns marred the splotchy flesh. Walker looked closer. More marks on the wrists. She’d been tied up. But the marks didn’t look angry—not like the kind you saw when someone had resisted their restraints. So tied up after death? Or willingly.

Again the care with which the body had been positioned struck him. The others had been similarly deliberate, one poised like a swimmer ready to dive, the other a painter mid-stroke, complete with a brush in one hand, his own body and surroundings the palette. Each in a completely different location—this latest would have also seemed random if not for the nature morte composition. She was 60 yards from Ingalls Avenue, about a quarter-mile from the river. Didn’t seem like a first choice for dumping a body—lugging it into the brush. The park downstream would have made more sense...

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. Walker was good at his job, but that didn’t mean he liked it. These violent reminders of what people did to each other were the reason he couldn’t quit. Also the reason he couldn’t hang on to a relationship or have a normal life. He took this stuff personally, let it bother him too much, and was looking forward to getting the newest lunatic in his town off the streets.

Straightening, he walked over to Holden, trying not to look as upset as he felt by the whole thing.

Let me know what you make of the rope burns, will you? Something weird about them. The others had marks, but she’s a little different.

Holden nodded, noticing Walker’s propensity to refer to corpses like living people. It made everything harder, when you did that, but it was something he never seemed to learn. In any case, she remembered better than him already.

The others also had restraints. I think the first one, the swimmer, diver, she saw the look on his face and forced the name out, Tristan Chambers. We thought that may have been breathplay gone wrong because of the ligatures around the neck. Wider marks around the wrists, not rope. She paused, considering. Maybe cuffs. The second one—Gavin Ahlin, I think his name was—was chains. Metal. Clear link marks around the ankle.

She was good. He remembered now, and offered his thanks. I’ll pull the files, Lynn. Appreciate it.

Holden looked at his posture, the fatigue that hadn’t been there when he arrived on the crime scene. It was a bit of a running joke, how Walker was a softie. He took all this stuff to heart, and if he weren’t so good at his job, there would be a lot more questions about why he kept it. She was going to say something to reassure him, but when his blue eyes met hers, she forgot the words, closing her open mouth.

He smiled faintly. I look that bad, huh?

She forced a little laugh, trying to lighten his mood. Hell no, Walker. You look damn fine, as usual. Go home, I’ll have the report for you tomorrow.

There would be a lot more than Holden’s report tomorrow. Already he saw the TV crews arriving. It wouldn’t be long before this latest murder was news, and he wanted to get a little sleep, if it was still possible.

X

The cop fascinated her. Terana watched from a distance, liking what she saw. It wasn’t just that he was handsome—and yes, he was strangely gorgeous—it was that he was so affected by her artistry, by the tragedy. Sadness rolled off him in waves, while confidence stiffened his movements. She’d never seen anything like it. Maybe he wasn’t a cop, she mentally corrected herself. Detective or investigator or something. That’s who they sent to catch the killers. Her lips curled into a smile at the thought. What luck, to have this particular man hot on her trail. She thought she was in love with him, just a little, after watching him suffer and marvel at three crime scenes. He hadn’t been at the fourth, but she supposed that may have been due to the location of the client.

She didn’t think of them as victims. They came to her, from all over, needing something, and she provided it. At great risk to herself. Terana was nothing if not selfless. She was able to offer a valuable service, and was unmatched in her profession. This detective wouldn’t understand—it was clear that he could only see death as tragic. Terana wanted to offer him a cup of hot chocolate, give him a hug, explain the liberation and pleasure she provided, and then, maybe, give him a little demonstration. The thought sent a ripple of heat from her crotch to her fingers, and she smiled wider. That … policeman. That was a good word, she thought, should cover whatever he was. That policeman was something special.

X

The smell of death didn’t wash off easily. Walker shut out the sounds of the city with the shower, shampooing twice, not wanting to be unoccupied, alone with his thoughts. He normally liked his apartment, but at times like this he felt claustrophobic. It was too small to escape his mental space.

He should be used to this by now. Almost ten years on the force, six of them dealing with the worst of humanity. He knew they made jokes about him, called him softie, and didn’t care. He didn’t get into police work to make friends, and definitely didn’t get into it to become a hardened asshole like his father. As far as he could figure it, when he stopped getting thrown by the shit he saw on the street, that was when it was time to find a new career. If you stop seeing the darkness, chances are you’re a part of it.

The tiles beneath his feet were unpredictably warm when he stepped out of the shower, reaching for the towel and finding it had fallen to the floor. With a sigh, Walker headed to the spartan living area, dripping a trail to the sofa. A serial killer. The shower hadn’t helped him put that out of his mind, and sleep was a long way off.

He collapsed heavily onto the cushions, mind somewhere else. The rub was that he’d already had to face this shit before in his tenure on homicide. Some detectives went their whole career without having to encounter the sociopathic diamond in the rough that was the serial killer. Lucky him, this would be the third time. And that’s the charm, right, he thought, not sure what he meant.

The towel in his hand reminded him that he hadn’t even dried off, a pool of water discoloring the stain-resistant fabric of the couch as he stood up, heading to the kitchen and wrapping it around his waist.

Some people thought he was a softie, sure, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his vices. Walker poured two fingers of whisky into a water glass, reconsidered, and doubled it. That would help sleep arrive a little bit faster.

X

Across town, Holden was working on the post-mortem. She liked Walker, always had, maybe a bit more than she should. It would take a stronger woman than her to be inured to his good looks, charm, and eccentric brand of sexy competence. And she knew how murders affected him. She wanted to catch this sonofabitch as much as anyone else, but she had the extra motivation of wanting to quickly push away that raincloud that would follow the detective around until this was finished. Holden liked his smile.

The glare of white lights battered the metal surface where the corpse lay. Holden wore her customary turtleneck, armor against the refrigerator-quality temperature of the workplace, and a blue surgical covering. Her purplish eyes were shielded by clear protective glasses, hands sheathed in latex, her so-blonde-almost-white-colored hair hidden by the same blue shade as her vinyl apron. Holden had been doing this a while, but she never failed to suit up correctly. Her internship had taken her to a biosafety level 4 laboratory, and she was still grateful for the hazardous conditions that made her take too many precautions in her current line of work. You couldn’t be too careful, that was the lesson learned from hemorrhagic fever diagnostics.

The victim was in her late 30s, Holden guessed around 38 or 39. She was fit, no clear medical issues visible externally. Ligature marks, light traces of rope, yes, like Walker had noticed. The woman had been bound, and hadn’t resisted. No fibers able to be lifted from the indentations; the body had been wiped clean, she was sure. The indentations seemed to point to some sort of blended or synthetic material, though, of the kind used in Japanese rope bondage. Holden was far from a shibari expert, but she would guess nylon or something similar.

The woman hadn’t been dead when the marks were made, and from what the coroner could figure, the ropes had been removed quickly after death. So not a typical fetishist, Holden thought, but then compartmentalized that thinking. Best to leave the psych profile to the shrinks. Lots of other disturbing things to occupy her from a purely physical perspective. The woman had an elevated cervix, vasocongestion and tumescence of the genitals. In other words, died in a state of heightened arousal, even orgasm perhaps, if Holden had to guess. Like the other victims. So back to fetishist? It was weird. She couldn’t figure it out.

But things really got interesting when she opened up the body—or more accurately, the torso. The woman was riddled with cancer. Lots of it. Tumors spread throughout the lungs and on the pericardium, the body rife with the metastatic seeds that were so well hidden on the surface. Holden wasn’t an oncologist, but it seemed to her that this case was well beyond Stage IV and well into Stage Weeklong Bucket List. It seemed unlikely that the woman hadn’t known, considering the extent and spread of the disease. It was astonishing. Holden couldn’t remember seeing so many affected organs in her career, not that she saw that many. Cancer patients rarely demanded autopsies, and in recent years, they were less frequent. She remembered reading something about it—how labs were having trouble getting a hold of different cancerous tissues due to the trend. But it was shocking that the extent of the disease hadn’t decimated the woman’s external fitness more…it must have been extremely fast moving, sudden onset, Holden decided. No way someone could live with all these tumors for any length of time and not have more external signs.

She weighed the liver, making notes, wondering how long the lab would take to get back on the toxicology and DNA tests. She would try to hurry them up, thinking again about Detective Walker and his personal investment in each of his cases. Maybe, she thought, he would feel some small sense of relief at knowing this woman’s life had been cut short by days, not years. It wasn’t exactly a comfort, but it was close, she figured.

Chapter Two

The alarm hadn’t gone off. Walker’s pale blue eyes cracked open on the clock. 5:58 am. That’s what usually happened. He shut off the buzzer before it could sound and sat up. The whisky had done the trick and he didn’t feel hung over in the slightest. Good to know my tolerance has increased .

Stretching, he moved over to the small window and opened the curtain, cringing slightly at the sunlight. It was too bright for this early in the morning, and Walker compromised by tugging one end closed again. That was better. He looked around for his phone, couldn’t find it. Shit, that meant he’d probably missed calls. He was used to being woken up by its vibrations, and although he appreciated the uninterrupted sleep, he couldn’t afford to be away from the damn thing.

Walker padded naked into the living room, picking up the empty glass and walking into the kitchen. The phone lay on the counter, next to the electric kettle and bottle of whisky. Three messages. The first two were unremarkable—records, the Chief, but the last was Holden. He listened as he set the water to boil, digging around the cupboard for a mug. Tea this morning; coffee was the main offering at work, he’d get enough of that later.

Walker, got something interesting here. Our Jane Doe was terminal, multiple malignancies. Would have been dead regardless if someone hadn’t rushed her to it. I’m going home, it’s three am, but let’s talk tomorrow. Prelim report on your desk.

He fished out a tea bag from the recesses of the cabinet and leaned against the counter’s edge, thinking. Terminal cancer. In a murder victim. Couldn’t remember ever seeing that before. Rubbing his forehead briefly, Walker tried to decide if that made it better. Not really. But it was something. A clue? A reason that she hadn’t struggled when her fate became apparent, knowing death was already certain? Walker couldn’t imagine the things that would go through someone’s head at a time like that, but he supposed surrender to a quick death may have seemed welcome in the face of prolonged suffering. God knows enough people offed themselves every day…

He shook off the thought, recognizing it as unhelpful for the moment, but one he’d have to come back to before long. He headed back to the bedroom as the tea steeped, running a hand through his sandy hair. It wasn’t short, wasn’t long, rarely anything but shaggy. At the Police Academy, they didn’t have a choice, and he’d be damned if he was ever going to have a regulation length haircut again. One of the best things about being a detective was you didn’t have to wear the blues. Walker had never liked uniforms, and took advantage of the freedom that offered when it came to his wardrobe. Jeans, decent shirt, nondescript tie, black jacket. Usually he skipped the tie and jacket—made him feel like a lame college professor—but he couldn’t ignore them if he got roped into a press conference, so he forced himself to put them on. He was curious now about the report, and silently thanked Lynn in his mind for jumping on it so quickly. She always seemed to work so late; he wondered why as he headed to the station.

X

An hour later, and Walker was at his desk, reviewing the slim folder he’d found there. He was once again jacketless, exposing the well-worn shoulder holster that he kept on out of habit. In the early days, he’d been roundly mocked for keeping his old Galco—lots of geriatric humor and Miami Vice jokes. But he liked the weight and feel of it, and was used to it, and any question about his quick draw and fire ability had long since been silenced. Walker was the best and fastest shot in the station, and after a few months, the relic and Don Johnson comments had stopped.

His office was one of the larger in the building, and he was glad for it. Plenty of cops didn’t even have a door to close, but he did. A decent size L-shaped desk, a visitor chair opposite, and enough space for two filing cabinets and a bookcase. No window except the one looking out on the corridor to the bullpen, and blinds over that, but he couldn’t complain.

The ME’s report was interesting, to say the least, but didn’t change the fact that some twisted artist was likely going to find another victim. But it did beg the question…were the other victims also terminal in some way? Was this serial killer playing the angel of death, seeing himself as delivering mercy instead of murder? Walker picked up the phone, called down to the morgue.

Yeah, I know Lynn’s not there. No thanks, no need to bother her at home. She had a late night. He sighed, having had one himself. Look, can you pull the paper on Gavin Ahlin and Tristan Chambers? He had the names memorized, no need to consult notes. We need to see if there’s anything I missed, similarities between them medically, like family doctors, specialists, shrinks, or conditions. Anything at all.

The tech on the other end noticed how the detective asked, the consideration. It was one of the reasons Walker was well-liked, despite everyone thinking he was too sensitive for police work. The man hadn’t suggested that anyone other than himself was to blame, if something had been missed. Hadn’t wanted to bother the ME, hadn’t tried to push this task off on a lower-ranking officer. Walker was a good guy.

Walker thanked the tech and hung up. He’d be examining the files personally, crosschecking every detail in there. If the victims had sneezed on the same street corner, he would find it, he promised. Something tied these people together, something more than the monster that had killed them and presented their deaths to the world like something out of Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty. Inspired by a twisted muse, driven to death as art. Walker felt sick, and went to get another cup of something hot.

X

Not far away, in the local library, Terana was doing some research of her own. But coming up short. It was hard to believe that her prey was so wonderfully off-the-grid. No social media. No listed phone number. No online dating, that she could find. It was deliciously frustrating. She liked a challenge. But the only things she’d been able to uncover had been boring, publically available information about Joliet PD’s golden boy, homicide detective Jair Walker. Thankfully, there had been quite a bit of that. Every time he arrested a perp, solved a case, rescued a hostage (domestic disturbance gone as wrong as possible, that one), he was photographed, quoted, and adulated. Terana’s spikey fingernails tapped the keys as she read through the online articles. He was good at his job, he was dedicated, he was as far from dirty cop as you could get, it seemed.

Graduated top of his class at the Academy, promoted to detective in only three years, fourth year made sergeant—apparently didn’t like the title, since he still was quoted as Detective Jair Walker in all the news since then. Took first in the all-state police sharpshooting competition three years in a row. Probably stopped entering, she smirked, to let someone else win. He seemed like that kind of guy.

A few commendations both before and after entering the investigations division. Nothing but career success, not even the obligatory notable failure. Didn’t they all have that one that got away? she wondered. It wasn’t a Hollywood trope for nothing, like getting shot just days before retirement. But no—Detective Walker didn’t fail, didn’t miss, didn’t have a single black mark on his impressive public record. He was…the ideal.

Her jeweled green eyes rested hungrily on the image adorning her screen. Impossibly blue eyes, deep enough to drown in, thin upper lip mismatched with a pouty, sexy bottom lip, a hint of sandy scruff, heavy eyebrows, hair a complete mess but in a wonderfully devil-may-care way, a side part that seemed accidental, hiding his forehead and giving him an aura of youth. Inoffensive if unadventurous fashion choices. He was delectable. The caption beneath read Homicide Detective Jair Walker Exits Courthouse after Rael Cassian Conviction.

She had been investigating the investigator for a while now, and unfortunately didn’t see any easy way into his orbit or affections. He had a hero complex, one that apparently he warranted—that was as close as he came to a vice. Terana would have to use that—it was the only in she could see. A curse escaped her lips, wondering how she could pull this off. She was not used to playing the victim. And she didn’t want to involve third parties, which would normally be the best way to catch his attention. Damsel in distress, assaulted, mugged, smeared lipstick and torn dress stumbling into his path. Ugh, she thought. Charming as he was, she had to find a better way. Being the victim would make him too careful, too cautious to be seduced. He would probably think she was misdirecting her attentions or just experiencing white knight syndrome—falling in love with her savior. She’d keep thinking. She had time.

X

Walker was pissed. The chief wanted a press conference, as expected, but there was nothing to say. Holden had been thorough in the other autopsies—no terminal illnesses for victim one or two. Would have been too easy, he supposed. No shared doctors, no common schools or overlaps in lifestyle. The most significant information—regarding the placement of the bodies—needed to stay confidential. So what was he supposed to say? Some sick fuck was exercising their aesthetic skills through murder and post-mortem art?

Walker shrugged into the suit jacket he’d known he would need, trying to collect his thoughts. Press conference. Serial killer. He needed to sit down with psych first, and didn’t have much time. He headed to see Leah Bale, the resident shrink and criminal psychologist. Dr. Bale wasn’t a whiz with the serial killers, she would be the first to admit, but she had been around for the other two, so hopefully, sadly, they both were getting better at this.

Walker knocked on the frosted door, pushing it open without waiting for an answer.

Now okay?

Dr. Bale made an expansive gesture with her hand, indicating the small couch in the corner of her dimly lit office. Walker went over, sitting, uncomfortable. Bale came and took the chair opposite, the doctor/patient dynamic established by mere static location. She was petite, everything about her looked tightly wound. It was her usual vibe, so it didn’t throw Walker off any more than usual. Her thick black hair was captured in a bun, her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut anyone brave enough to dare a touch.

So, another serial killer… Bale looked at her notes, then back to Walker as if it were his fault. Are we sure?

Walker had to bite back the words that wanted to escape, instead offering a tight smile and trying to sound like he didn’t find her questioning his evaluation offensive. You disagree?

She tapped her pen on the folder, looking at him carefully. Not necessarily. But three bodies, nothing similar except found in, let’s say, deliberate positioning. Seems like a thin thread, compared to our other forays into this area.

Yes, Walker had to admit. The others were black and white. The wanna-be Jack the Ripper, a surgical student slicing up prostitutes, that was pretty easy to categorize. The second, a megalomaniacal businessman, couldn’t resist sending notes because he felt the police were ignoring his crimes. They wouldn’t likely have tied them all together so quickly, in that case, because the guy was not about methodology or unity of purpose—he just wanted attention. But this one was definitely weirder. More Hollywood. Maybe the perp had watched too much Dexter and wanted to give murder a go.

The first body they’d found, Tristan Chambers, was presumed erotic asphyxiation. Definitely strangled, but the condition of the corpse suggested a strong sexual component to the killing. He hadn’t struggled, and was found poised on his side, as if about to dive into an invisible pool. The second, Gavin Ahlin, exsanguinated, his displaced blood used to paint heart shapes around his remains. Gavin had been holding the paintbrush, and also displayed signs of sexual arousal near